I had taken my break.
It was long enough.
As much as I enjoyed spending ti with the girls, I couldn't sit around forever. Anthony was still going through the files, and until he had sothing useful, I was at a standstill. That ant it was ti to focus on my jobs again.
But there was a problem.
I hadn't gained a single skill from becoming a boxer.
It was weird. I rembered getting my Lawyer Portfolio instantly, and with it, I expected a flood of skills. But this ti? Nothing.
Was this another case of my Instinct skill stopping from gaining sothing? If so, why?
I exhaled through my nose. It was frustrating, but I had no choice but to trust my own subconscious.
For now, I needed to train.
I grabbed my new mask—the Beetle Mask—and slipped it on. The weight was reassuring. Strong, durable, built for impact.
Good.
Now, I just needed a trainer.
The first gym was a bust.
I had barely stepped in when I was t with uneasy stares. People whispered behind their gloves. The trainer at the front desk barely looked at before saying, "We're not taking new students."
I knew that was a lie.
I checked my phone. Their site literally advertised open slots.
Fine.
Onto the next.
And the next.
And the next.
Fifteen gyms later, I was still without a trainer.
At first, I thought it was because I had forgotten to set up my Mr. Beetle I.D—a dumb mistake on my part, since they couldn't tell I had a Boxer job. But they never even asked for one. I soon realized the real reason.
It was the mask.
People knew what it ant.
Even though the Masked Syndicate had won the trial and proven our innocence, we were still controversial. People saw the mask and imdiately thought: trouble.
No trainer wanted to be associated with that.
I felt... frustrated.
Not angry. Just tired.
All my life, I had fought for opportunities. When I was an F-Rank, nobody wanted to give a chance. I clawed my way up, proved myself, and forced my way into places that once ignored .
Yet, here I was again.
Being turned away.
I exhaled sharply, shoving my hands into my pockets. By now, the sky had darkened, the last remnants of daylight bleeding into the horizon.
I walked.
Not ho. Just... aimlessly.
Trying to clear my head.
A voice pulled from my thoughts.
"Spare so change?"
It was quiet, raspy, almost lost beneath the murmur of passing cars. But it still reached .
I slowed my steps and turned.
There was holess man with his knees tucked tightly to his chest, who was leaning against the brick wall of a closed convenience store. His garnts were threadbare, nearly falling apart at the seams, the material tattered and soiled from countless nights in the open air. His jacket—if it could truly be called that—was a worn windbreaker, zipped up to his neck regardless of how little heat it could offer.
His visage was gaunt, his cheekbones pronounced, his skin was pale with that unhealthy, hollow appearance of soone who had not eaten adequately for an extended period. His hands, placed on his lap, were coarse and split, with nails that were irregular and rough. However, what was most striking were his glasses—one lens was completely absent, while the other was shattered with cracks, rendering it nearly ineffective.
He glanced at , and for just a mont, I noticed the weariness in his gaze. The kind that went beyond re hunger or chill.
It was the exhaustion of soone who had been surviving for far too long.
Sothing tightened in my chest.
I had never been holess, but I knew that kind of struggle. The uncertainty. The desperation that clawed at your stomach when you didn't know where your next al would co from. I rembered what it was like to be an F-Rank, scraping by, being ignored, dismissed.
I had climbed out of that hole.
But not everyone could.
I reached into my pocket, fingers brushing against crumpled bills. When I pulled one out and saw the $100 printed in bold ink, I hesitated.
One hundred dollars.
It was absurd.
Years ago, that amount would've been unthinkable to hand over. Back then, I would have stared at a bill like this, turned it over in my hands just to make sure it was real.
But now?
With all my jobs?
It was pocket change.
The realization left a strange taste in my mouth.
I crouched down and held the bill out to him.
His eyes widened.
His hand hovered in the air, uncertain, as if afraid to take it. "I—are you sure?"
I nodded. "Yeah. Take it."
The words ca out effortlessly, but seeing his response made my stomach turn.
Gently, unsurely, his fingers glided over the bill before ultimately grasping it. He fixated on it, blinking vigorously, as if he anticipated it to vanish at any mont.
His hands shook.
For an extended period, he simply remained seated, his breath escaping in irregular bursts. Then, as if reality had truly sunk in, he emitted a soft, breathless laugh.
"God..." His voice trembled with feeling. "You can't imagine what this ans for ."
I exhaled, standing back up. "It's alright."
I turned away, already preparing to walk off.
And then—
"You're a kind man, Reynard."
I froze.
A cold shock went through my body, sharp enough that my next step halted mid-air.
I hadn't said my na.
I hadn't even hinted at it.
For a second, my mind scrambled for an explanation. Had I let sothing slip? Did I have sothing on that gave it away?
No.
I had been wearing my mask the whole ti.
Slowly—very slowly—I turned back.
The holess man was looking at .
Not just looking.
Evaluating .
And for the first ti, I felt like I was the one being judged.
The streetlights overhead cast long shadows over his face, making his expression unreadable. His cracked glasses caught the glow, obscuring his eyes just enough that I couldn't tell what he was thinking.
But he was too calm.
Too steady.
Like he had been waiting for .
The wind picked up, chilling the night air.
I should have felt the sa, but for so reason—
I felt warr.
Like the weight of sothing unseen had just settled onto my shoulders.
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